Date: Sun, 1 Aug 2004 16:17:04 -0400
From: Amy Matthews
Subject: Trust 2
Trust
Part 2: Fiery Pride
I was pacing nervously, glancing out the windows from time to
time. Seven-thirty was approaching. Friday. As I paced, my hand
occasionally stole to my newly shaven upper lip. It was hard to
regret the loss of the mustache itself--it had never been much of a
mustache--but it had always been there, to prevent me from doing
something outrageous. Now it was gone.
I'd gotten a note in my mailbox at school in the middle of the
week. I kept telling myself that she'd put it there herself, so it
wouldn't have to go through normal mail, but the intrusion of that
carefully sequestered portion of my life into my day-to-day routine
made me jumpy. Jumpy, hell, it had thrown me into a tailspin.
"Lee, sweetie, I told you I wouldn't ask for anything beyond your
strength. But I've been thinking about Saturday, and I have a hunch
that you're much stronger than you think you are.
"I will pick you up at 7:30 Friday evening. I will wait five
minutes. If you're not ready then, I'll leave."
A bit ambiguous, the Observer pointed out clinically. Leave ...
forever? Until the next Friday? Until the next phonecall, or note?
Long enough to drive around the block? the Professional Cynic added.
I have enough different points of view inside my head to populate a
bad novel, and most of them have names, of sorts. The Intellectual.
The Dreamer. The Romantic, the Professor, the Pessimist, the
Comedian, the Coward. They held meetings from time to time and
shouted at one another, while my mouth stuttered in the background.
"In your stories, the woman always asks the man to 'say it,'" her
note continued. "I won't do that to you. All you have to do is get
in my car. As my 'sissy.' The other two conditions also stand (but
don't wear pink ones, wear white ones)."
Why does she have to keep using that damn word? the Codger
grumbled. Because it's appropriate? the Cynic suggested. Perhaps
because you use it in those hideous stories, the Professor commented,
and she is aware that it is a sort of 'Word of Power' for you. "Fuck
the stories," I snarled aloud. She made three conditions, the
Observer observed. Panties, perfume, and mustache. Which one did she
forget?
"Once you enter my car, we start a new relationship, just as I
intended last week with the roses. I will lead, and you will follow.
This note is to let you know *where*. To lay the ground rules, I
guess.
"I won't be the 'boy,' but you, in a sense, will be the 'girl.'
I will make the dates, call you, invite you out, drive the car, and
pay the bills. And perhaps buy you flowers, or sexy underwear. You
will simply be available (or not available, but in that case you may
find yourself waiting by the phone for me to call). To remind you of
this, you should be wearing panties and perfume every time we go out.
If you don't, I may simply drop you at your house, and you can wait to
see if I call you back.
"At your doorstep, everything changes. You are in charge. I am
a guest, if you invite me in. If you want to wear studded leather
jockey shorts at your house, that's your prerogative. It will be *my*
prerogative to accept or decline your invitations, or to leave when I
wish.
"At *my* doorstep, everything changes again. *I* am in charge,
and even more so than you are in your house. You will dress, talk,
and act as I tell you to. A hint: you won't be wearing pants in my
house any more. When you arrive, I will lock away the clothes that
you arrived in. If I invite you, you can expect that we will sleep
together. You are always welcome to come visit, of course, but that
places no obligations on me. In my house, I will have the power over
you of a mother over her daughter, or a big sister over little. If
you wish to spend the night with me, at my house, but don't have the
courage to ask, you may send me a signal by bringing your nightclothes
with you.
"If, for some reason, you wish to leave before I give you
permission to go, there will always be an option. I have purchased a
pair of men's jeans and a shirt in your size. There will always be a
set of unremarkable clothes on the table by the door, and you are free
to change into them and leave." I didn't catch how cleverly that was
worded until a couple months later. It *looks* like more of a promise
than it is. "However, you won't be welcome in my house until you
volunteer to do whatever it is that caused you to leave in the first
place."
"I love you. Nancy."
Puzzle *that* one out, the Cynic sneered. Oh, don't be a
damnfool! the Codger grumped. She just wants to make sure you're not
sneaking around doing things behind her back. She wants you to prove
you're *not* a sissy, is what. So prove it. Is that what she was
doing on Saturday? the Doubter asked. The rest of the Committee
snarled at him to *shut up* about Saturday.
It was almost seven-thirty, and I was pacing. I'd spent the week
thinking, too. If you can call these debates between personality
fragments 'thinking.' My powerful repugnance at being reduced to
something unmanly warred with the memory of astonishing sex. I'd
passed out, ferchrissakes! But if I read that letter properly, it
wasn't going to happen again in my house. It might in hers, but I
wouldn't be able to get up in the morning and do myself up 'boy.' She
was going to arrive in minutes, and I still hadn't made up my mind
whether I was even going to go *out* on her terms. Oh, it may have
looked as if I'd made up my mind, seeing that I was wearing 'white
ones,' perfume, and my face was smooth-shaven. In fact, there was a
flight bag by the door, with a nighty in it. And my makeup, just in
case.
But the shaving had only taken place at seven o'clock. The
perfume was barely noticeable, if you leaned in close. And the
panties--they were a sort of symbolic protest. I'd gone and bought a
pair, which always made my teeth sweat, facing one of those clear-
faced female cashiers, but I'd done it. They were cotton. Calvin
Klein for her. About as mannish as panties got, until you got to
panties-for-men (I had a couple pairs of silk men's underwear, that
were basically flyless bikinis, differing from panties only in that
they were solid, subdued sorts of colors, had wide waistbands, lacked
decoration altogether ... and cost roughly three times what panties
cost. Got 'em from Vicky's Secret. They didn't give me the same
thrill that panties did, though.).
I saw her car pull up in front of the house, and almost went to
hide under the bed. My brain went into overdrive, and I used up my
adrenaline allowance for at least the next six months. I was not
breathing very well. I was leaning on the door of my house. Outside.
Unsure how I had gotten there. No, I was leaning against the side of
the car, staring at the hand that was holding the handle. I shrugged
internally, and told it to go ahead, go on with it, but the signals
kept going astray. Instead of opening the door, my legs twitched
occasionally. My knees felt oddly weak.
I closed my eyes. Click. They popped open. The click wasn't my
eyes, it was the door of the car. Had I opened it? Or had she leaned
across to do it? No, I saw, she was sitting there with her hands in
her lap, turned slightly to face me, and watching compassionately. I
gulped--it must have been the last of my pride I was swallowing; it
tasted pretty bitter--and slid in. My eyes fastened on her dashboard
clock. It said 7:47.
She didn't give me time to feel embarrassed that I'd taken
seventeen minutes to cross a smallish lawn. She leaned close, kissed
me warmly, and said, "Hi, sissy!" The Committee took off to race
around the block, gibbering and arguing with one another, and then
came and caught up with the car when she stopped at the corner.
"Umm, hi," I responded. "S-sorry I'm late," I offered.
She gave me a funny look, then cracked, "That's the girl's
prerogative." That was my line. I used to use it whenever she was
late because she stopped to make herself pretty, and it used to always
be good for an exasperated glare. I couldn't think of anything to say
in response, though, so I reached for a cigarette.
Oops. Must have left them on the table. I let out a breath. A
safe topic of conversation. "Umm, I forgot my cigarettes. Could we
stop somewhere?"
She looked at me, frowning. "Are you carrying money?" she asked.
That struck me a little odd. I did, but even if I hadn't, she wasn't
going to be driven broke on a pack of cigarettes. I frowned back and
nodded. "Don't, from now on," she said, turning her attention back to
traffic. "Put a dime in your shoe if you're worried about being left
somewhere, but you don't bring money on a date. Put your wallet in my
purse."
I started to object, then bit my lip, catching sight of how she
was watching me in the mirror. *We* had never worked that way. We'd
gone dutch, as often as not. She was testing me. I should have
realized that from her comment about the dime; phone calls hadn't cost
a dime since both of us were teenagers. So she must be telling me
something her mother told her. It sounded like something I'd heard my
mother tell my sister, although as I remembered, my mother had just
recommended she keep a dime for the phone in her shoe, not that she
not carry money. I pulled out my wallet, and discovered that I was
extremely reluctant to part with it. It was a sort of symbol of me,
of my masculinity, or something. No, of my independence, I realized,
forcing my fingers to release it, and watching it drop in with her
things.
We pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store, and I
started to get out, then paused, puzzled. I looked at Nancy, whose
eyes were laughing. "I'll get them, sweetie," she said, with a lean
and a kiss. "Do you need anything else?" I blushed. No, it wasn't
that suggestive a line, but I'd once tried to make her sit in the car,
when it was raining cats and dogs, and ran into a store to get
something she said she needed. And when I'd asked that, she'd told me
what it was she also needed, which was probably the only thing she
needed. I let her get her hair wet, rather than try to by feminine
hygiene supplies.
"Uhh, a lighter," I said.
I relaxed into the seat, a little red-faced, to wait, and
reflect. It's the little things that count in a relationship. One of
my friends had told me that in college. He was living with his
girlfriend, off-campus, and the reason he told me is because they had
just had an enormous screaming fight, based, on the surface, on the
fact that she bought the groceries, and liked her peas fresh or
frozen, while he preferred the mushy kind out of a can. It was one of
those ridiculous little stories that stays with you. He'd been
laughing when he finally admitted to it, and then, to my surprise, had
gone off to make a compromise, instead of simply giving in. I
recalled dates from my past, and times when I had dashed into a store
to get something for a girlfriend. Leaving her in the car. I
recalled that it had made me feel important, and gallant. Now I
wondered how it had made her feel. Taken care of? Or taken in
charge? It *was* kind of pleasant, being waited on. But the waiting
wasn't as pleasant, nor was the feeling of incompetence. Once more
the battle between security-in-dependence and fear was on. I began to
wonder what caused the fear. Fear of not being taken care of? Or
fear of being noticed, dependent on a woman?
She came back, handed me a bag, and started up the car. I turned
my head away after I opened the bag. I didn't want her to see the
tears. It was not a nice trick. Virginia Slims, a pink lighter, and
some breath mints. We were at the restaurant before I had fought my
composure back. I left the bag in the car. She didn't say anything.
Good thing, too, because I was simmering.
Once more, she was in charge, but this time, whenever I started
to do something from my usual patterns, she subtly spanked me.
Figuratively speaking, of course. She made me feel gawky and a fool,
so that dinner was actually a pretty miserable affair. And no
cigarette to finish it, not until we got to the car and I smoked one
of the foul VS's. I was acting pretty subdued by that point. What I
was was steaming, just smoking mad. You know what kept me from saying
anything? The panties. Even cotton ones. Suppose I made a fuss,
right? She could just expose me. Well, she could, couldn't she?
She seemed to be having a nice time, and continued to act quite
affectionate, putting her hands on me, teasing me, flirting. But as
soon as I started to do the same, she'd pull away sharp. In fact, as
we stood in line at the box office, I realized that she had maneuvered
me into *clinging*, in that sort of soft, desperate way that some very
shy women have. I actually saw red. I thought that was just a
phrase, but I did; my sight went all hazy red, and when I refocussed I
was standing stiffly, a couple feet away from her, with my fists
clenched. She pretended not to notice. I settled angrily into my
seat in the theater, and then she got me all off balance again, with
caresses, and popping candies into my mouth, and gently agressive,
affectionate behavior. At the end of the film, my head was on her
shoulder, and the Dreamer was in control, with the Romantic as ally.
"Shall we go to my house?" she asked, as we slid into the car
again. Whang! and another six-month's allotment of adrenaline used
up. I didn't have to consider it, but I might have looked like I was
for the five seconds before I got my breath.
"Mine," I said, firmly. She had promised to let me be macho in
my house, if I wanted to be. During the movie, which included a love
scene, of course, it had occurred to me that one way to stop the weird
parts of this relationship was to do unto her as she had done unto me.
Drive her crazy with lust, as masterfully as the actor on the screen
did. As masterfully as she had done to *me* the week before. If I
could turn her on even in panties, I had an idea that she would just
*melt* if I played her the way she had played me.
She gave me a look that said, 'I know what you're thinking,
naughty boy!' And a smile that promised delights. I breathed a sigh
of relief. The old Codger was right, and he wasn't too proud to say
'I told you so.' I started running plans through my head. But when
we arrived at my apartment, she leaned over to kiss me, warmly but
briefly, and said, "I'll call you, okay?"
"I ... But ... Don't you ...." I took a deep breath. "Would you
like to come in?" I asked.
"No, I don't think so," she replied, calmly. "I have to get up
early." Wait a minute. She'd asked me to *her* house. And she'd
told me that it meant, well, sex! Something had gone wrong. The
Cynic was throwing peanut shells at the Codger in the attics of my
mind.
Masterful, Leeling. Be masterful. I gave her a look intended to
be both wry and sexy. "Aww, come on. I'll show you my etchings."
She smiled, without warmth. "I'd rather see your collection,"
she said, and rubbed my hip. Then she frowned. "Aren't you wearing
panties?" she asked.
That was ... deflating. "Cotton," I gritted. The Observer noted
that it was a bit difficult to play suave and deadly when one was
wearing feminine undergarments. I hesitated, angry and frustrated,
and then climbed stiffly out of the car.
She leaned over and rolled the window down, behind me, as I
walked toward the door, fuming. "Lee," she called, in a clear, amused
voice. "*I* make the rules." I turned to look at her. She smiled,
this time warmly, and continued. "I call the shots, honey. All you
can do, if you don't like the game, is get out of it." I clenched my
jaw, at a loss for an answer. It *was* what I had agreed to. More or
less. "I'll call you," she repeated, and drove off.
I'd thought I was miserable before Christmas. I didn't know
what misery was. On Friday night, I'd felt betrayed, angry, and
bewildered. I laid in bed for three hours before I cried myself to
sleep. Saturday morning, I tried to call Nancy. Answering machine.
Four times. Six times on Sunday. Monday, I decided I wasn't going to
humiliate myself any more, and went marching through a day of snarling
at the secretaries and my students. I didn't call. Neither did she.
I spent the evening pretending to read, and staring at the phone.
Surprised hell out of one of the little darlings by answering the
phone on the first ring, with a breathless, "Yes?"
Tuesday I said to hell with pride, and started calling again. At
work, one of her female coworkers informed me that she had just
stepped out, laughing under her breath. The third time I called, she
said, "She doesn't want to talk to you, okay?" and slammed the phone
down. Also the fourth and fifth time. I couldn't believe what I was
doing. When I was a teenager, the idea of this sort of reaction to a
call would have been enough to keep me off the phone for a month. I
justified it to myself by saying that I just had to prove to her that
I was willing to grovel a little, and she'd see me again. She *had*
to see me again. I hadn't done anything *wrong*. At four-thirty, as
I was gathering my things and getting ready to leave, my office phone
rang.
"Hi, sissy!" her voice said, cheerfully. I nearly dropped the
phone in alarm.
"Christ, Nancy, what if one of the secretaries had answered?"
"You don't sound like any of the secretaries, sweetie. Listen, I
just realized that I still have your wallet. Do you want me to bring
it over?"
I'd forgotten all about the damn thing. I could have used *that*
for an excuse to see her. How had I missed that one? "Uhh, sure,
that'd be, uhh, nice. I'll, uhh, buy you dinner as a reward."
Silence. I deliberately ignored it. Put this relationship back
the way it was supposed to be, right? "How very ... forward of you,
Lee," she said, distantly.
Oh, shit. I hadn't heard ice like that since the breakup. "S-
sorry! Sorry! I forgot!" I gasped into the phone. I gulped.
Where's your spine, boy? the Codger asked, irascibly. With his heart,
the Comedian quipped. Nancy has it.
She chuckled. When had she learned to chuckle? She used to
giggle, or snicker. But that was definitely a chuckle. "Maybe I'll
let you cook me a dinner, sometime, sweetie."
An out! Was that an out? I jumped for it. "T-tonight?" I
asked.
Another pause. "My place or yours?"
Ooh, shit. Was that an invitation? I was safe enough, I told
myself, if it was an invitation. Get her in bed, and I'll convince
her. I felt a pounding in my head, echoed lower down. Wait, no, if
*I* picked, would she regard that as an invitation? Better be safe.
"M-m- ... Yours?" I heard myself say, uncertainly.
That *chuckle* again. It was unnerving. "Are you asking to come
to my house, sissy? You haven't forgotten the rules, have you?"
Well, that settled the question of the invitation quite neatly, didn't
it? I'd just invited myself.
Okay, how do I get out of this? Ask her to my place instead?
Oh, hell, she settled that already. Maybe she'd change her mind about
the invitation. Or about bed, at least. Just go for it, idiot,
advised the Romantic. Sexy, male voice, with a pickup line, so she
knows you're still planning on changing the rules. "Hey, babe, I make
a killer steak. Give me a place to cook, and I'll make you a meal fit
for a Que- ..." Ooh, *nice* turn of phrase, the Cynic applauded,
sarcastically. And that quaver in your voice! So manly!
"What a lovely offer!" Nancy exclaimed. "I'd love it, sweetie.
Why don't you come over around seven?"
I went home and paced, occasionally blinded by tears. Tears of
rage, tears of fear, tears, perhaps, of weakness. They feel a little
different, I guess, but they all taste the same. And when your
emotions are roiling so badly that you can't tell what you're feeling,
it's difficult to sort out what sort of tears you're crying. The rage
was directed equally at myself, for being a spineless, weepy,
pantywaisted wimp, and at Nancy for making me be one. The fear ...
that was easier. I was afraid of everything. Of being laughed at,
especially. Of being humiliated. Of losing Nancy. Of turning into
someone I wouldn't want to know. The weakness ... well, I guess it's
enough to say that I was pacing in my favorite pair of panties. I'd
changed as soon as I got home.
I still had that bag packed, with my stuff in it. But when I
left the house, I left it there. I was having second thoughts (are
they still second, the thousandth time they race around the inside of
your head, sticking their tongues out and jeering?) all the way to
Nancy's house. Parked. Blew my nose and wiped my eyes. I got out of
the car.
You know how, when you do something over and over, it becomes
second nature, so that you don't even notice you've done it? It falls
down into your pre-conscious. Like riding a bicycle, the famous
example. Or putting on the turn signal in a car. On the way over,
I'd been astonished several times to realize that I had done things
legally. My preconscious was driving, the Comittee was running around
in the belfry of my mind, screaming and wailing and scaring the bats.
And you know how, when you've visited someone often enough, you stop
even noticing the route between the car, or the bus stop, or whatever,
and the door?
This wasn't one of those times. The panic was infectious,
apparently, and my preconscious came down with a bad case and took to
its bed. Every step was an effort, every sight was brand new,
searing, in living color. Good thing I wasn't chewing gum. I never
would have made it to the door. Once I got there, I just stared at it
for a while. It took another effort to remember that the brass thing
was for knocking, and the button for ringing. I had to choose one.
That required deep thought. Don't laugh! It could happen to you.
"Hi, darling!" she said, and kissed me. Oh, heaven. Fluttering
little angels, playing harps, everything bright and rosy. Rosy ...
pink. No, let's not think pink. I wonder if I knocked or rang? Not
important, of course. The kiss was important. The kiss ended. I
made an incoherent noise of protest. "Your clothes are in the
bedroom," she said. "You can change and start dinner. I'm starved!
Didn't you bring your makeup? Hmm. I guess we need to get you a
purse. You can use mine, this once; it's in the bathroom. Call me if
you need help."
Hmm. Not only had she learned to chuckle, she'd become a witch.
She'd teleported me into the bedroom, and then blinked out. Have you
gotten the idea that I was a little over the edge? I was further
rocked by the clothes. Yes, the famous pink dress, with all its
accessories.
"Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, and doesn't know where to
find them. Leave them alone, and they'll come home, dragging their
tails behind them!" I was quite pleased without myself for being sane
enough to recite poetry. The Cynic applauded, sarcastically. Some
time had passed, and I was sitting in the desk chair, staring at the
stuff on the bed. Progress had been made. My shoes had gotten
themselves taken off. My shirt had been unbuttoned; likewise my
jeans. Which meant that my Calvin Kleins were showing. I barely
noticed.
"You know, you'd be popping a zipper if you had this thing at
*your* house," the Cynic said aloud. "Only crazy people talk to
themselves," I replied viciously. "I may be crazy," the Romantic
responded, "but am I crazy enough to dress up like a refugee from a
fairy tale in front of the most important woman in the world?" The
Comedian laughed. "Yeah, right, get real. Fairy tale for adults,
maybe. The Scarecrow dressed up like Dorothy." A part of me that
hadn't woken up for a while chimed in, "Story idea, there."
"Oh, good," the Codger remarked to thin air. "While we were
talking, someone seems to have undressed me. How kind of them. Do
you think you'd like to maybe calm down, buckle down, and get it over
with?" I looked around, and the Comedian commented. "Funny, I don't
*see* any large, friendly red buttons, with 'Don't Panic!' inscribed
on them. Well, never mind. We already did that. Try something
else." The Cynic: "Ha! What?" The Romantic: "Well, what about
getting dressed?" The Coward: "In that?" The Tough Guy: "Yes, as a
matter of fact."
"Right. Problem: getting dressed. Solution: One: stand up."
Intellectual at work, breaking down the problem to understandable
steps. I did. "Good! Two: Walk to bed. Very nice! We may be able
to make something of you yet. Three: pick up dress." Pause. "Umm,
hands toward bed. Touch it, dummy!" Intellectual supplanted by Tough
Guy, or Can-Do Man.
"This isn't working, Leeling," I muttered, sinking to the bed.
"Maybe if you could trick yourself into it. Or, I dunno, twist your
arm. Or pull your hair until you cry like a girl and abjectly humble
yourself by wearing girl-stuff." Another story scene, of course,
contributed by the Cynic.
"This isn't working," I repeated, in a miserable voice. And to
my horror, started to cry. "Stop that!" I demanded angrily, but at
the same time curled up into a tight defensive ball. "Just give it
up, then," I sneered. "Get dressed, tell Nancy you're too *much* of a
sissy to wear a dress, and leave. I'm *sure* she'll understand!"
That was the Cynic again, sneering with professional skill. A little
voice inside, though, spoke up, a bit timidly. "I bet she would. Why
don't you ask her?"
"Nancy?" I heard myself call. Not much of a voice, that.
"Lee? Are you all right? What are you doing? What's taking so
long?" She came in the door on the last question, and halted, her
eyes going very wide when she caught sight of me.
The Committee members, acting in concert, grabbed the tears,
brutally throttled them, hog-tied them, and threw them into a cell.
"I c-can't d-*do* it!" Damn, the world's fastest escape! That's
impressive, boy, the Codger told me. Just start crying. Not only
does it show how macho studly tough you are, it shows how little
women's clothes affect you.
She waited until I managed to turn a groan into a growl and
frighten the tears into submission. "Do you need some help with
something, Lee?" she asked, carefully, neutrally. Her eyes were
hooded. Setting precedents, I understood later. One doesn't back
down from the orders. At the moment, though, I felt cast adrift,
helpless to do what I knew I *had* to do.
"I bet that would work," said the timid little voice in my head.
"If she helped, I mean." The Committee took a break from suppressing
the weeping mutiny, and considered the idea. Yeah, okay, if I can
ask. "C-can you help me g-get dressed?" I asked, timidly. Hoo, wait!
We haven't had a Committee meeting on this! That question qualifies
as a policy statement, and a quorum of personality has not been
convened to rule on its applicability! The timid little voice gave a
timid little grin, flipped its skirts in the faces of the ponderous
thinkers who usually gave me hell, and disappeared. Astonishing. The
Committee of crazed personalities has been invaded by a little girl.
Where'd she come from?
"Well, of course I will, sweetie. Come on, sit up straight, and
raise your arms."
Okay, Tough Guy told the timid little voice, a little grimly, as
I lifted a leg to step into a pair of panties that screamed 'Fetish!
Fetish! Fetish!' at the top of their pink ruffled lungs, you wanna go
subdue that nether mutiny for me? Nancy and I both pretended we
didn't notice that my cock rose as the panties did.
"Can you do your makeup yourself?" Nancy asked, looking up from
buckling the second shoe.
I nodded. "No," the timid little voice said. "I don't think I
can look in a mirror right now," she explained. Sweet gods of the
mountains and forests, there was a little girl borrowing my voice!
The Committee convened in great excitement, determined to do something
about this open rebellion.
Nancy smiled, kissed me on the cheek, and assured me, "I'll be
right back."
I suspect that I looked primly proper as she fixed my face for
me. Completely passive, with my hands lying in my lap. It wasn't
that I was getting into character, or anything. It was just that the
Committee had decided to form a posse, or a lynch mob, and were
hunting for that traitorous little girl. She must have had a lot of
experience, hiding, though. Not only did Nancy do my makeup, she also
put my hair up on the sides, with a pair of barettes, and added a pair
of earrings. She finished, urged me to my feet, and had me twirl.
Odd feeling, having a skirt brushing against my legs. And letting in
a sort of draft. The Committee was still howling in pursuit. "Pink
suits you, sweetie. You really should wear it more often. Are you
going to start dinner now?" Timid little nod of the head. Ha! The
mob recognized that mannerism, and roared off in pursuit.
They got stunned into immobility in short order. Nancy keeps a
full length mirror in her hall. You have to pass it, going from the
bedroom or the bathroom to the kitchen or living room. The committee,
roaring along in pursuit of the little girl, suddenly caught sight of
me in that mirror. And every single one of them--the Professor, the
Observer, the Professional Cynic, the Codger, the Tough Guy, the
Comedian, all of them--suddenly found themselves in cute little pink
dresses, and ran for cover. With a tinkling girlish giggle taunting
them.
Nancy led me by the hand to the kitchen. As she turned to leave,
I blurted, "I look really ridiculous, don't I?" The last few steps,
with the Committee mostly lying low, I'd noticed the skirt swaying
against my legs, and the nylon covering my bottom, and I'd become
aroused again, despite myself. Maybe it was just the sexual element
that embarrassed me? Or maybe that was the element I was interested
in? I shied away from enumerating the other possible elements.
She slid her arms around my waist, hugged me tightly, and then
leaned back to look in my face. "You look ..." she said, slowly, with
a long pause to make sure I was listening, and so she could judge my
response, "like a sissy." She watched the blush rise in my face. I
saw her, from the corner of my eye. "A very pretty, very desirable
sissy," she added, as carefully as a chemist mixing nitric acid with
sugar water. Blushes feel different, too. Was that one change from
embarrassed blush to pleased blush? Her hands slipped down from my
waist, and I forgot about blushing as intoxicating sensations spread
from her delicate touch, satin on nylon. "Do you remember what I ...
feel, for sissies?" she asked in a murmur, biting my earlobe and
pressing her hips against mine, as she stroked my bottom again.
She had teleported away again, I discovered when my eyes opened.
I sighed. Had she made a promise? Well, at least a suggestion.
Gods, do you suppose this is the way women feel, when they start
acting incredibly sexy, moving with that incredible grace? When did I
get graceful? Better start dinner, kid, it's already eight o'clock.
One special of the house, coming up.
Not coming up, I realized, almost fifteen minutes later. I can't
cook. I mean, there are about half a dozen dishes I can do up
wonderfully well. Spaghetti, for instance. That takes all day,
though, for the sauce. Nancy had taught me to make Fettucine
carbonari. She didn't have any bacon or parmesan cheese. She'd also
taught me mexican. Nit in the fridge. Not even salsa. Plus I could
grill any animal that I could get to hold still long enough. The
grill was on the balcony. Never mind. That left altogether not much
in my repertoire. Cheese sandwiches. I didn't think that would be a
big hit, not for a dinner.
Well, I tried. There was chicken in the fridge. I had an idea
of how one fried it, so I got that sort of started. Flour and bread
crumbs, and some spices, right? It didn't stick too well, though.
Then I attacked a head of lettuce, subdued it, and dismembered it
partially. Some tomatoes and stuff. Frozen beans; they came with
directions, and needed nothing but boiling water. Rolls from a can.
'Disaster' is too mild a term. I think part of the trick to
cooking, like to lots of other things, is simply confidence. Well,
when the chicken fat caught fire, at the same time that smoke started
to issue from the oven, I lost my nerve. Water is not a good thing
for oil fires, and opening an oven door doesn't do much for the
atmosphere, when the rolls are burning. Fat splattered onto the eye
where the beans were, and flared up, and I grabbed for the pan in
desperation. Any girlish grace I might have once felt evaporated.
The smoke alarm began its peculiarly piercing wail, and I added curses
as the boiling water from the beans slopped first onto the stove, and
then, as I overcorrected, onto my legs. I dropped the pan and danced
backward into the table, and the salad bowl toppled onto the floor
with a ceramic splintering.
"What the ... ! God damn it, Lee, what does it take to get you
to ask for help?!" She dashed for the stove, slipping on the beans
and salad and slamming a calf into the open oven door. Salt in the
fat, then the lid on and the pan off the stove. She whirled, slipped
again on the slimy mess covering the floor, and slammed her hip into
the table, but she reached the smoke alarm, jerked off the cover, and
pulled the battery loose.
I managed to get the rolls out of the oven, and started to set
them down on the table. The wooden table. You know, the one with the
finish on it. She snatched at the pan, burning her hand as she pushed
it toward the sink, and then stopped, visibly gathering her temper. I
dropped the pan and gulped. "I-I'll clean it up," I said, dejectedly.
My leg hurt, and I'd just proven myself utterly incompetent, and the
fact that my shoes slipped on the floor reminded me that I was dressed
for Halloween.
"No, you *won't!*" she replied, sharply. She opened her eyes and
glared, then turned to yank the freezer door open and get some ice for
her hand. "You'll go to the bedroom, sit down, and *wait!*" I
flushed. "And then," she added, still biting her words off, "We'll go
*out* to eat!"
I nodded, and stepped backward, trying to ignore the throbbing
agony in my leg. I didn't think she was going to have much sympathy.
I had to pass that damn mirror again, though. I managed not to stop.
But there was one on the bedroom dresser, too, that I had kept my back
turned to the whole time. I flopped into the desk chair, and then
blushed. Stood up, smoothed the skirt underneath me, and sat down
again. At least that way I didn't feel the fabric of the chair
directly on my ... my underwear.
I couldn't help it, I turned to look at the mirror. I'd only had
glances at myself, and they had been disturbing enough. I looked,
then closed my eyes and looked away. Took a deep, steadying breath,
and looked back.
I had never been much of a fan of mirrors, dressing up at home.
I'm nearly six feet tall, and skinny. 32-26-34--it sounds sexier
than it is. I'd once tried padding a bra, but no matter how little I
put in, it always looked like I had tennis balls taped to my chest.
Or ping pong balls. No curves, all angles. Nice legs, the ladies
said, but boys' legs, more muscular than pretty. Big hands and feet.
I always looked completely ridiculous, which was one of the saving
graces; I'd never been tempted to try to "pass as female."
I still looked ridiculous--mostly. The pink dress was a little
girl's dress, or a costume; nobody six feet tall and angular should
wear a dress like that. The shoes more or less matched the dress,
except that they were boats. I wear a 10 1/2 in men's sizes. Hairy
calves sticking out of lace stockings--christ, almost the definition
of 'camp.' I probably could have dealt with that. What was
disturbing was the pretty face perched on top of this monstrosity. My
face *could* pass, now that the mustache was gone. The hair was
pulled back in a very authentically feminine touch, not at all
overdone; that displayed my ears, which were sporting a pair of little
gold butterflies. The makeup I was wearing was not the awkward stuff
that I did for myself, or the somewhat dramatic effect that Nancy had
put me in on that fateful Saturday. It was understated, too, and it
basically turned my face from being unremarkably boyish into being ...
unremarkably pretty. Feminine. Girlish.
*Sissy*. I *hated* that word, almost as much as I hated
'pantywaist.' Nancy knew that from reading the stories, of course,
since sooner or later all the sissy heroes had to admit that they were
sissies. I was *living* a sort of fantasy, and it was giving me the
*creeps*. Seeing my face transformed into something feminine, nearly
*female*, shook me to the depths. I stood up abruptly, intending to
walk over closer to find the flaws and reassure myself. Stopped
equally abruptly. The dress ... transformed my usual motions.
Softened things. I took a couple steps. It swirled when I walked,
emphasizing first one leg, and then the other. The fullness of it
also gave me a sort of illusion of hips.
I gulped, and looked at the door, then grinned slightly,
remembering my teenaged days, when I'd snuck into my sister's room and
kept one eye on her door while I rooted through her underwear drawer.
Then I turned around, looking over my shoulder, and tried to watch
myself walk from behind. Darted another glance at the door, and
bounced experimentally. The skirt swirled a bit, but I didn't achieve
the effect I wanted. Marilyn Monroe from behind, basically. So I
bouced some more, and when that didn't serve to flip the skirt up, I
lifted it, pretending that my hands were a breeze, and craned my head
around over my shoulder again.
"If you're done showing off," Nancy said shortly, "go wait in the
living room. I need to change."
My head snapped back around to face her, and I dropped the skirt
as if it burned me. Embarrassed, I started for the door. And
stopped, as she stepped inside and opened the closet. "Umm, Nancy?" I
asked, a hideous doubt springing up and growing to larger-than-life-
size all in the space of seconds. "Shouldn't I change, too?" She
looked at me, her face telling me nothing. "I mean ... I c-can't go
out l-like *this!*"
"You wear what I tell you to wear while you're here," she said,
with no sign of softening, and repeated, "Go wait for me in the living
room. Stay out of the kitchen."
I got as far as the hall mirror before stopping. She meant to
take me somewhere in this ... in this *costume*. "Why don't I just
wear a sign that says 'Pervert?'" I grumbled to my reflection. It was
not a pretty reflection. For one thing, the blood had drained from my
face, and the makeup had gotten pretty obvious. "I *can't* do this!
They'll ride me out of town on a rail!" I looked at the bedroom door.
It opened. "I thought I told you to wait in the living room?"
Nancy said, walking toward the kitchen.
I gathered up my courage again. "Sh-should I change now?"
"No. You look fine. For the third time, go wait in the living
room."
"No!" I screamed, and stopped, shocked at myself, shaking. "I w-
*won't wear this!* I b-burned *my* leg, too, you know, but I'm not
trying to, to drag you outside in your p-p-pa-p-pan- ... in your
*underwear!*"
"I never said a word about you going outside, did I? *Trust*,
Lee! I told you to go to the living room, and wait. Dressed as you
are, since I haven't told you to change. When you have done that, I
will come tell you to do something else."
"You said we were going *out* to eat," I shot back, breathing
hard. I think I knew what happened to all that adrenaline. It had
gone off, collected all its friends, and waited for an opportunity. I
was trembling like a leaf, my arms and legs shaking, my vision
blurring, and caught somewhere between utter screaming panic and
bloody rage. "Are you gonna give me my clothes back?"
"I told you to go to the living room and wait, Lee. Now go to
the living room and wait." She turned her back on me, and walked into
the kitchen.
I stood there, breathing hard, for about ten seconds, and then
started struggling out of the ridiculous clothes. No way. Not any
way. Maybe she could have shamed me into it, since I made such a
complete mess of dinner, if she had told me I was going to wear
women's jeans. I told myself that, and when I believed it, I told
myself that I might even have worn a skirt, or something. Maybe she
meant us to go to a drive-through, or something like that, but
*damned* if I was going to try it looking like I'd escaped from the
nearest brothel!
By that time, dress, panties, and shoes were on the floor, and I
was pulling off the stockings. Nancy reappeared in the kitchen door.
She looked at me, then at the discarded clothing. I leaped for the
table by the door, and snatched up the clothes there. Yes, men's
clothes. No underwear. No *shoes*, damn it! I started to pull it
on, anyway. "Are you leaving, then?" she asked. Calm voice. Hint of
a quaver? She took a breath. "You know that when you decide to come
back, you'll have to put everything back on and go wait for me in the
living room. Don't you think it would be easier to do it now?"
I had the pants on, and the shirt over my shoulders, if not
buttoned. "I will *never* wear that shit again!" I said, voice
shaking. "You can *burn* it! I am not going to, to *blow up my life*
just so you can prove how butch you are!" That was supposed to be an
insult. She smiled. Why did she smile?
"You'll want your shoes, then," she said matter-of-factly, and
started for the bedroom. "I suggest you take off your makeup as well.
Your wallet is in my purse; I bought you a new one."
I hesitated. This wasn't the response I expected. I almost
started for the bathroom, but I figured the trap in that--the door
opened out, and she could barricade it, or something. Paranoid? Me?
Instead, I dug makeup remover, kleenex, and a mirror out of her purse,
and smeared the stuff off. I didn't find my wallet, though. The
Doubter was back in my head, wondering if I was doing the right thing.
I called the Committee into session, and pointed out the dress, and
told them to shut that idiot up.
She came back carrying my shoes, and I belatedly pulled off the
other stocking. Grabbed my coat. Stuck my feet in my shoes. "I
didn't find my wallet," I said, sullenly.
"You won't need it if you stay here, Lee," she replied, standing
up with the dress in her hands. "If you're not going to change back,
I'll put these things on the chair in the bedroom." That was a
question. I glared an answer. Did she look sad? "I bought you a new
wallet. The red leather one." She hesitated, and added, awkwardly.
"You're going to think it's an insult, but it isn't. You can carry it
in your briefcase, and nobody will ever see it. I wanted to see your
... your bottom without the wallet in the way."
I found it. Red leather. A lady's clutch purse, I guess you
call them. The things women keep in their purses. I discovered that
all the shaking and trembling I was doing was anger. I grabbed my
coat, stuck the thing into a pocket. I'd clean my stuff out of it
later. "That's *it*," I snarled. "Now I understand! I thought ....
You hate me, don't you? Because I didn't live up to your image of
what a man should be, is that it?" A look of horror came onto her
face. "Well you can *forget* your revenge, lady. You moved too damn
fast. You can't prove those stories are mine, you can't prove I ever
wore *that* shit, or *anything* else! You're screwed," I said,
forcing a laugh that I hoped was defiant. "*Nobody's* gonna believe
you. You shoulda took pictures, or something."
I was right, I knew I was right. That upset look on her face was
because I'd figured things out, and she wasn't going to have the
pleasure of destroying me in public. I jerked the door open, and
started to slam it. She caught the edges of it, so I couldn't, and I
spared a glance back. Oops. Wrong thing to do. She was crying.
"Lee," she said, keeping her voice steady with obvious difficulty, "I
love you. Trust me!" She took a deep breath, reached a hand toward
my face, and added, "And take the barettes out of your hair."
I stopped at a convenience store on the way home. I had a plan,
but it called for massive quantities of beer. Remembered to take the
money out of my wallet, with my license, *before* I went in, and
stuffed the wallet under the seat of the car. I was right, I knew I
was right. She hated me; that explained everything. I got a case of
beer. The cashier gave me an odd look. I figured it was because I
was a little wild-eyed. I didn't remember about the butterfly
earrings until I got home. See how she tricked me?
When I got home, after I had discovered the earrings, I took
everything feminine in the house and stuffed it into a garbage bag.
Then I laid out one pair of panties, one bra, one slip, one skirt, a
pair of stockings (I don't like pantyhose), and a blouse. I couldn't
find my cosmetics. I wasn't really in a condition to think about it.
Then I dressed, and each time I put something on, I put a cigarette
out. Once I was fully dressed, I looked at Nancy's picture, my eyes
streaming, and told her "I don't need you, bitch!" Cigarette number
seven sizzled out against the flesh inside my arm, and I curled up,
sobbing.
The original plan at that point called for me to undress with six
more fiery stops. I justified cutting straight to throwing everything
away by the reasonable argument that I didn't want to use aversion
therapy for taking such things off. Well, I didn't, did I?